These are the thoughts I cannot voice. The truth you’ll never hear.
That there were days when I thought you would be the death of me. I was sure that soon, my mind, so full of you, would whirr and hum and splutter to a halt like an old car. I wonder how all that time you never knew I loved you. Adrenalin made me drunk on thoughts of you.
In my dreams you are not a shadowy replica like the others. It seems that somewhere in my subconscious I have stored the substance of your being. Your touch becomes tangible, too tangible to bear.
Because you did kiss me. Your glorious whispers fell like miracles on my ear. A sublime reality I was too scared to imagine. The nights when you walked me home and said nothing, later the days when you lay with me and your words gushed. They were all perfection and you made perfection of me.
And here I am now and you seem so far away. A name on a screen, a number that doesn’t say hi. Those tiny crystals of communication that lit up a day have dissolved into your schedule. I wonder what I’ve done or who I have become or who have you.
And every time I hear those notes and it’s not your fingers plucking them, something crashes inside me.
Sometimes I wish you’d just say it. Let me feel it now. Sometimes I pray you won’t, so I can keep believing that maybe you never will.
And so comes the sad truth: Without even trying you built my dreams like castles-brick by brick of splendor-and without even knowing you let them come tumbling down.